


Lares Ossium

by Merlin Missy (mtgat)



Category: Save the Bones for Henry Jones - Johnny Mercer and the King Cole Trio (Song)
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death, Seasonal Spirits and Guardians, Tall Tales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-28 19:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18763123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtgat/pseuds/Merlin%20Missy
Summary: Every table for every meal has a seat set aside for ol' Henry Jones, or so it's been since I was a child. We eat our breakfasts, our lunches, our suppers, and we set aside the bones when we're finished, and they get piled up at Henry's spot. That's the way it's always been around here.





	Lares Ossium

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cnoocy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cnoocy/gifts).



Sorry, you can't sit there. That chair is reserved for Henry.

Every table for every meal has a seat set aside for ol' Henry Jones, or so it's been since I was a child. We eat our breakfasts, our lunches, our suppers, and we set aside the bones when we're finished, and they get piled up at Henry's spot. That's the way it's always been around here.

My grandfather told me that his grandfather remembered when Henry first made his acquaintance to our village. People could see him better in those days, though there's still no two people who can say the same about what he looks like. He's handsome, most folks say, with a wide grin that stretches a little too far, but everyone likes a big smile. Henry loves to see us all smile, too, and it's best to leave out his dinner with a friendly face. We wouldn't want to be unfriendly to ol' Henry, no sir.

Back in the day, people weren't afraid to talk about folks like our Henry Jones. Every town, village, or speck of pigeon dirt at a crossroads had its own local fellow just like him. Some of those other places called them demons, or local spirits, or old fashioned ghosts. Brother Henry's no ghost, and he's no devil, either. He's a friend to all who are a friend to him. He's our neighbor.

Before Henry came to stay, there was trouble. I know, I know, everywhere's got trouble. It's always the same thing: one big dog wants what the other big dogs have. We were right in the middle. Of course, everyone was in the middle those days. There were a lot of big dogs to go around, and all of them hungry. They say Henry wandered in from another town or village, some poor scrape of homes and farms that got set to the torch. He can't do much about fire, you see, but everyone's got something they're no good against. Why, my sister's half-scared of thunder, and you don't want to show my brother a spider. Henry's like that with fire. They burnt his town, his people fled to other places, and he came slouching into our village in search of a new home.

My grandfather told me the bones got started by accident. Someone threw their scraps out the window, and woke up to find them gone, I guess. I know you're thinking it was scavengers. But the meat scraps weren't touched, and scavengers don't wash the plate when they're done. He had all sorts of names back then, like William Whisper and Old Sneak, but someone down at the tavern said "that was Henry Jones what stole the bones" and that's been his name ever since. I think he likes it. You can see him grin when someone says, "Henry, this plate's for you," leastways when you can see him at all these days.

People didn't know much about Henry back then. Boys would throw rocks at him. Girls would scream and run. The scraps got covered and hid. But he always found a way in, and the bones would be gone, and the meat left behind to rot. It was strange, and people didn't know what to do. They said Henry was up to some dark magic, casting spells or something. They said Henry would sneak into your home at night and eat you raw unless you locked up tight, but my grandfather said that wasn't right. Henry didn't eat people. He didn't eat meat. Still doesn't. Everyone knows that.

After a while, people stopped caring about how strange he was. You see someone every day for twenty years, even someone as odd as Henry, and he's not a stranger any more. And things were quieter after Henry came to stay. He was good luck, him and his mother both.

I didn't mention her before. We don't know much about her. Not everyone believes in her. I've never seen her myself, though I've seen Henry at a table plenty of times after a big meal, just sitting there waiting for his treat. His mother doesn't join him, and I don't know what it is she eats. I do know my grandmother left a fresh egg out for her every time the weather threatened a storm. "Mrs. Jones is making soup," she'd say when the wind was high and smelled of rain, and the scent of that wet wind still puts me in mind of her.

Now my grandmother, she was the one who told me the story about the soldiers. Henry and his mother had lived in the village for nigh on thirty years by then, and things had been mighty peaceful, or as peaceful as they got, living between rivals as we did.

One day, one of the big dogs heard our village belonged to the big dog across the way, and he thought it ought to be his. He sent his soldiers to set up camp here, or maybe they came on their own, using his name. No one knows these days, and I don't suppose anyone knew back then except them. They blew into town with shouts and with guns, and they demanded all the best food, and all the money everyone had for "protection," and they terrified anyone who even thought about saying no. They story I heard said they shot three men for looking at them wrong, and they wouldn't let their families take the poor dead fools off to be buried unless they wanted to get shot, too.

"Let the wolves eat them," one of the soldiers said. That's always in the story, no matter whose grandmother or grandfather tells it, which makes me think it's true.

With a lot of tears, and a lot of anger, the families went back to their homes. The soldiers stayed up half the night, drinking and carousing and getting up to all sorts of no good in the name of the big dog who'd sent them. But after all that fun, they finally took themselves off to bed somewhere shortly before the crack of dawn, that time of night when they say it's the darkest.

Out of nowhere, there came a storm.

In the morning, when everyone came out to see to the livestock and to get on with their day, and maybe to have a strong word with those soldiers, well, the soldiers weren't a problem any longer. They were all lying in their beds, folded as neat as shirts. Every last one of them had no bones left inside at all, though my grandmother swears there wasn't a drop of blood spilled. There aren't any pictures from those days, and I guess I'm glad. I admit I've woke up at night sometimes thinking about what that must have looked like, those hard men gone all soft and rubbery. The poor three village men who got shot still lay in the road where they fell, but they hadn't been touched, not by a stray dog, not by so much as a fly, and certainly not by our Henry. Their families gathered them up and took them to the cemetary, and they buried them respectfully. When everybody said their amens, there were quite a few thanks to ol' Henry Jones sprinkled in with the hallelujahs.

Or so I was told.

These days, there aren't any soldiers coming around. Sure, we're still in the same place. There's bigger dogs out there than ever before, but they leave us alone. You know, there hasn't been a murder nor any other crime to speak of around here for as long as I can think. And no, it's not like that, not all beating the children behind closed doors. See, Henry can get behind closed doors. He'd see. He protects all of us, even from each other. The last time a man took a belt to his child was in my grandfather's day, and Henry didn't even leave the man's teeth behind.

You shouldn't be frightened. If he's a spirit, he's a good spirit, and if he's a devil, he's doing the work of the angels. We leave him a seat at the table to show him he's welcome and remind ourselves he's never far. So don't sit in that chair. When the feast is done, we'll save the bones for Henry Jones, because Henry don't eat no meat.


End file.
